[ kryptonite ]
Wednesday, October 13, 2010 by Erin Collins
You are that churning sickness in my gut,
that boiling, brewing bile that burns my throat,
every time I think of you.
You walk those cracked sidewalks,
breaking backs with every step,
keeping stride with nothing but your narcissism.
I hate that fake red “S” on your chest;
you're not fooling anyone, you're no one's hero,
especially not mine.
If I jump from that rooftop,
I know you won't save me,
I know you'll never be waiting at the bottom again.
But still, I hide behind cubicle walls,
silently hoping for you,
that hero who will never come.
